


Raising the Stakes

by House of Halation (glasshibou)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Boudoir Photography, Degradation, F/M, Gen, No Smut, Pet Play, Photography, anyway thank you 6 month anniversary for letting this live rent free in my head, if you squint really hard - Freeform, other than that I think it's fairly gender neutral, tagged reader as female because of the clothing mentioned BUT nothing else is described, the tiniest bit of, this is just a precaution, you do not need to have played that event to read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26089993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/House%20of%20Halation
Summary: Satan's restraint is almost legendary, and is a source of constant frustration for you. Perhaps it's time to test that self-control?---For an anon on tumblr, who said:"A boudoir photography satan fic would be wonderful :’ (if no one’s asked already and you wish to write it too of course!)"
Relationships: Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 89





	Raising the Stakes

He stands directly behind you as you reach up to but the book back in its place on the shelf. To your side, the fireplace spews comforting light and heat out into the room, but the warmth you feel is entirely from the way his front presses against your back. Your breath almost catches in your lungs and you fail to repress the shudder that rolls through you.  _ Later, _ he keeps telling you every time you manage to sneak off and find yourself in compromising situations.  _ We’ll pick up on this later. _

Except you never do.

And it’s starting to, frankly, piss you off. What’s the point of getting your hopes up if he’s never planning to follow through—or worse, is completely uninterested. You’re certain of so few things in the Devildom, but you’re…  _ pretty sure _ that he’s not  _ not _ interested. At least, that’s what the insistent hardness as your back says. And if whatever interest in you he had before has gone, you wish he’d just say so. 

“Find me later,” he whispers close to you, his breath hot as his lips trace across the shell of your ear. You frown like he’s been able to read your thoughts, and you turn to finally give him a piece of your mind…

Except he’s gone by the time you turn around. You find the source of his hasty retreat on the other side of the library. Leviathan mumbles something about Mammon putting a book back wrong as he searches the shelves, and you bite back a sigh. 

Well… You can’t fault him for not wanting to do anything where he could get caught. By his  _ brothers _ of all people; that particular moral is shared by both demons and humans, you suppose. But there have been plenty of other times, too, when you’ve been completely, utterly alone.

Or he could just lock his damn door. Really, was that too much to ask? Lucifer almost walking in on you both during room checks (you only barely managed to roll off the side of Satan’s bed onto the floor before Lucifer opened the door) seems to have considerably cooled the blonde demon’s ardor because ever since then, he’s been a little distant.

Always fobbing you off with promises of a later that never comes. 

And you’re  _ sick of it. _

But you can’t be angry because despite being the Avatar of Wrath and a literal demon, he’s incredibly patient with you, and caring, and so even if he refuses to just take you quickie against the wall like you want him to, you  _ suppose _ you can’t blame him. You wonder if he’s just as frustrated as you are or if his restraint works against even that. Some selfish part of you wants him to be just as close to snapping as he is, you decide as you make your way back to your room. The relief that your own hands can bring you is unsatisfactory compared to what you fantasize about with Satan. 

Your eyes fall on the photo album he gave you, the one with the moving photos. An idea circulates through your mind and you smile softly to yourself as you page through it, the moving photos on the page bringing back fond memories. But giving the demon moving photos just won’t do, not if you want to reach your goal and bring him to his breaking point. No—what you need is a good human-world camera, one with all of the limitations that being without magic brings. 

And luckily, you have one with you. 

It even has a timer.

* * *

It’s easy enough to grab everything you need, as far as props go. What Asmodeus can’t let you borrow is simple enough to find on Akuzon, and thanks to their shipping policy, you have it all in your hands almost as soon as you think about it. You promise yourself that the money you spent will be  _ well _ worth it, and you lie to yourself that you’ll  _ definitely _ find another use for the little scrap of silky fabric passing itself off as a robe. Hell, maybe Asmodeus would want it; it’s not like you’re going to dirty it or do anything beyond wearing it exactly once and then taking it off to let it linger at the very back of your wardrobe. 

Still…

You lock your door and even go through the trouble of slapping a paper charm on it to make absolutely certain it remains shut tight as you go about your business. The last thing you want is to be interrupted or to have  _ anyone _ find you in such a state of dishabille. The thought of Mammon walking in on you wearing the lacy lingerie you splurged on for this specific purpose embarrasses you so thoroughly you almost call the whole thing off.

Almost.

Instead, finish tying the laces on the corset you bought and snap it shut in front of you, hoping you look anything at all like the model in the photograph. It makes you feel like the model, at least; you’ve never really bothered trying to look or feel sexy before, but now is as good a time as any, and… You discover that you like it. Even in front of the camera, you feel powerful and not at all self-conscious like you’d expected. After all, it’s only you in the room and the camera is completely mechanical; there’s no way your photographs will show up anywhere you don’t want them to.

The metal boning in your corset digs into your ribs as you try to arch your back, turning your head to look at the camera from over your shoulder. You hear the shutter on the camera snapping as it takes photographs of you, capturing every movement as you search for a new pose. You try the ones you’ve seen in magazines first, the ones that are  _ clearly _ not trying to sell the product they’re pretending to. 

You slip out of the corset and the panties that came with them, shrugging the silky robe on instead. And nothing else. It closes over your hips but leaves a generous portion of your chest exposed, the material straining enough to cover your nipples. If you bought it to actually  _ wear _ you would have gone a few sizes up—but this isn’t to wear, and so you hunted down the smallest size you could find, the one meant for the smaller minor demons. You complete the image by tying the robe in front of you, even if the knot of the sash sits on the bare skin of your stomach. Without having to look down you know that the chill in the air means your nipples show through the fabric anyway. 

As you go on without being interrupted—the fates have smiled upon you because nobody even knocks at your door—you feel more daring, even more confident in your scheme. You allow the fold of the fabric you’re barely wearing to fall close and closer to the apex of your thighs, teasing what’s there without actually showing it.

There’s time enough for that later, you decide, a smirk crossing over your face only to get captured by the flash of your camera. The pile of clothes that you’ve worn grows bigger and bigger as you work your way through them—the mesh bodysuit, the lacey corsets, the robe, the garters and stockings—until you’re left with the most daring thing you allowed yourself to think of. While you have the camera paused, you pick up the length of ribbon you purchased and wind it around yourself just enough to claim you’re covered. You finish it off with a bow around your chest, smiling a little as you feel the material bite into your flesh. It doesn’t hurt at all, but you can tell it’s there and know that he’ll be able to see it in the photographs. 

There’s one more thing left on the table, the headband that you purchased more as a joke than anything else. It made you laugh because the ribbons attached to one of the cat ears matched the ribbons currently tied around your body and is similar enough to Satan’s casual sweater that the connection to him is undeniable. Still…

You slide the headband onto your head and arrange the ears so they look like they’re coming directly out of your hair. 

With a press of a button you start the camera back up again. 

* * *

There are few opportunities where Satan isn’t surrounded by someone, whether it be his brothers or classmates of friends he’s made out of school. For being so generally quiet, he’s also extremely popular. On one hand, you’re happy that he has a lot of friends and that he seems so comfortable around them. On the other… well, it makes it really difficult to give him your gift in a place where you’re certain he can look at it by himself and it won’t get snatched out of his hands by a nosy onlooker. 

So you settle on a little bit of subterfuge, slipping your much smaller photo album in between two books he’s loaned you. It stands out, of course, because it’s tied shut with a length of leftover green ribbon in the same type of bow you’d had on your chest. You try to act casual as you slip all three books into his school bag, doing your best to hide the silky ribbon but keep from crushing it at the same time.

“What are you doing?”

You whirl to face Satan, wishing you couldn’t feel your own guilty look spread across your face. You’re not taking anything out of the bag, just adding something. It’s his, anyway. So you take a deep breath and shoot him a brilliant smile. 

“Just returning your books,” you say, patting the spines of the books. In case you wanted to do some. You know. Reading.” You wince at your own words and the stilted tone your voice takes, the way your voice climbs higher with nerves.

“Is that so?” Satan eyes you with a new curiosity as he brushes by you to sling his bag over his shoulder, brushing his hand over the books you’re deposited there. He pauses when he feels the ribbon and reaches to pull your photos out.

“You should wait! And maybe… Read it when you’re alone.” The last thing you want is for him to open up the album you gave him in the middle of the Academy; you’d never live it down, if only because Asmodeus would smother you.  _ How dare you take those photos without me _ you can hear him whine already. Satan only nods once, which does little to relieve you, before he walks away.

You’re jumpy for the rest of the day, wondering if he’s looked at his gift yet. And if he has, what he thought of it. The idea that you’ve made a terrible miscalculation plagues you as you walk back home to the House of Lamentation, the knowledge that Satan went home early just as bothersome. Maybe you’ve made him so angry that he couldn’t be around other people.

Maybe you should go hide out in Purgatory Hall until you can scope out the situation a little more. After all, it was sort of presumptuous of you… 

But he’s not waiting there when you open the door and he’s not there in your room when you go to change and wash up from your day. Everything is as you left it, so you sincerely doubt there are any traps hiding anywhere. Maybe, you start to think, he just hasn’t seen it at all. He could have been busy with his social groups, after all; he’s so secretive about where he goes and when. 

You start to relax.

Dinner is almost impossible to get through because not only is Satan there, but he’s  _ staring. _ Intently. Like your thoughts are transcribed on the inside of your skull and he’s trying to read them. You look away quickly and try to focus on eating, avoiding all eye contact by refusing to look down at his end of the table entirely. Eventually, hosever, he forces your hand.

“I wonder if you’d come to my room after we eat,” Satan says after he’d caught your attention with your name. “There’s an interesting passage in this new book I acquired, and I wonder if I might be able to get your thoughts on it.”

Okay.

So.

He’s not angry. You can tell that much by the way he smiles—at least, you think you can tell that much. 

“Sure,” you manage to say, proud that your voice isn’t squeaky like it can get when you’re nervous. Because you’re definitely nervous, pinned under his intent gaze, like you’re the only thing in the entire world capable of capturing his attention. 

“Excellent.” He smiles at you like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and you feel your stomach churn in excitement. It’s quite the task to get through dinner, and you’re conscripted to help wash all of the dishes after, which means that Satan leaves without you. By the time you’re free of cleaning duty, you’re just happy your hands haven’t pruned. You don’t even stop by your own room on the way up to Satan’s.

Your knock on his door feels far too loud, but that’s most likely the way your nerves are magnifying every sensation far beyond what’s normal. Satan calls through his door for you to come in; when his door closes behind you, you can hear the lock slide shut. 

“You asked to see me?” He only smiles and you pretend like you haven’t heard that you’re trapped in his room with him. Not that  _ trapped _ is exactly the word you’d prefer to use, not when you’d been wishing he’d just lock his damn door for so long already. 

“You gave me some  _ very _ interesting reading material,” Satan says, holding one of your photos up between two of his slender photos. You have to creep closer to him to see it, but he has the actual photo flipped to face him. You can’t tell which one it is, but by the way his other hand holds the green ribbon and his fingertips skim over it, you think you can guess. 

“I thought it’d be stimulating,” you say, trying for a casual tone. Satan hums in agreement and twists his fingers so that you can see the photo he’s holding up. It’s the one that has you trussed up like a present, back arched in a leonine curve with the cat ears perched on your head. 

“Who knew you could be such a dirty kitten? Giving this to me in front of so many people.” Satan clicks his tongue as if he’s scolding you, then places the photograph safely away from him on a nearby pile of books. “But maybe you wanted to be caught,” he muses, crooking his finger to draw you nearer. You follow as if pulled on a leash, grinning at the way his eyes light up with mischief. 

“Not by anybody but you,” you confess, drawing close enough that your foot bumps against his. Satan smiles and reaches out for you, pulling gently on your arm so that you fall onto his knee, placing you squarely in his lap. 

“Good,” Satan sighs. “Because I discovered just recently that I  _ really _ do not want to share you. Especially…” he reaches behind him and your eyes widen when you see he’s fished out the cat ears you hid in your room. “... When you look like you’d perform so beautifully.” He slides the headband onto your head and you lean against him, pressing your cheek against his chest. 

“I guess,” you pretend to deliberate over your answer. “We could always find out, right?”


End file.
